The First Step
by heisey
Summary: A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. This is the first step on Jim's journey to independence. Revised version.


The First Step

I was sitting at the desk, trying to work, when the phone rang. It was Terry – the last person either of us wanted to talk to. In the month since Jimmy's release from the hospital, he'd called twice before, wanting to talk to Jimmy, but I'd put him off both times. It was all I could do to be civil to him, and I didn't even try to keep the coldness out of my voice.

"Can I talk to Jimmy?" he asked.

"Hang on, I'll see."

I hit the "hold" button, so Terry couldn't hear us, and went to the bedroom. When I told Jimmy that Terry was on the phone, the color drained from his face, and he looked a little sick.

"I know you probably don't want to talk to him," I said, "but it's up to you."

He frowned and shook his head. "Not now, not ever."

"Okay."

I went back to my desk and picked up the phone. "Jimmy . . . can't talk right now."

"Oh," Terry replied. "How's he doing?"

"He's . . . making progress," I lied.

"Well, give him my best. I'll give him a call in a couple weeks."

I didn't want that. I didn't want to have to talk to him and keep putting him off. "You don't need to call again anytime soon."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"It may be a while . . . before Jimmy's ready to talk."

"I don't understand . . ."

"He knows, Terry."

"Knows? Knows what?"

"He remembers what happened at the bank."

"Oh, shit . . . Christie, listen, I can explain. I was pinned down. I don't know what Jimmy expected me to do . . ."

I interrupted, sharply, "He knows what happened."

"Oh, God, I'm sorry. Just tell him I'm sorry."

"I have to go now, Terry. Goodbye."

After hanging up the phone, I tried to go back to my work, but I couldn't concentrate. I went into the bedroom and sat on the bed next to Jimmy.

"Are you okay?" I asked, rubbing his shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. Is it Terry?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I guess."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

There was nothing more I could say. I caressed his cheek and went back to my work.

* * *

Later that afternoon, I was in the kitchen washing salad greens for dinner. Just as I turned off the water, I heard a thump and a muttered, "God damn it!" I turned to see Jimmy standing next to the coffee table, rubbing his right shin. I hurried over to him.

"Jesus, Christie, why didn't you say something?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry, I was in the kitchen with the water running. I didn't know you were there. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Come on, sit down and let me take a look at it."

"I told you, I'm fine," he repeated irritably.

"Just let me make sure you're not bleeding."

"Dammit, Christie, stop hovering!"

"I'm not hovering. Just sit down and let me take a look at your leg."

He shook his head in annoyance, but reached out, found the couch, and sat down. "All right, all right," he said grudgingly, pulling up the leg of his jeans.

I took a look. There didn't seem to be a new injury among the fading bruises and healed scrapes, but I was certain, based on past experience, that there would soon be a new bruise. "The skin's not broken, but I'm sure you're going to have a bruise. I'll get you some ice to put on it."

I sighed as I went to the kitchen for the ice. It was painful to see Jimmy lose his way in the familiar surroundings of our apartment. Even though he never spoke of it, I knew he was frustrated and embarrassed when he bumped into things. What was worse, this type of incident was happening more frequently. Clearly, the limited training he'd received in the hospital wasn't enough. Or maybe he just didn't care enough to pay attention.

I sat down next to Jimmy and put the ice pack in his hand. "Here you go." He took it and pressed it against his shin. Trying to keep a light tone in my voice, I said, "You know, Jimmy, I don't know how much more your poor leg can take."

He turned toward me, frowning. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just . . . wish you would consider independence training."

He shook his head.

"C'mon, Jimmy," I coaxed. "It would do you good, make you feel better about things."

"Make me feel better?" he asked, sarcastically.

"Yes." I replied, firmly.

"Don't do this now, Christie."

I decided to drop the subject, for now. I didn't have the heart to press him, not after Terry's call earlier in the day. I kissed his forehead and went back to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner.

* * *

Two days later, I was washing the breakfast dishes and considering a new way to try to reach Jimmy and get him into independence training. He'd seemed more depressed than ever since Terry's call. I knew he wouldn't just "snap out of it." I'd tried cajoling, encouraging, and leaving him alone. Now it was time for a different approach.

I went into the bedroom. As usual these days, Jimmy was lying on the bed, wearing an old T-shirt and jeans. His three-day growth of beard wasn't a fashion statement. I took a deep breath and began, "Jimmy, we have to talk."

He sat up and turned in my direction. "Yeah, what about?"

"Just how long is this going to go on?" I asked, making sure I sounded impatient and exasperated.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"This," I said. I waved my hand toward him and the bed, then stopped when I remembered he couldn't see the gesture. "For the past month, you've spent all your time either sleeping or moping around, feeling sorry for yourself."

"I like to sleep. I'm not blind when I'm asleep." He turned away from me and started to lie down again.

His words almost brought me to tears, but I was not going to let him dismiss me so easily. "This conversation is not over, Jimmy," I said, sharply.

He sat back up and shrugged, looking resigned. "Just say what you have to say."

"You can't spend the rest of your life sitting around this apartment. You need to start independence training so you can get on with your life."

"My life?" He gave a bitter laugh. "What life?"

"If you'd just give it a try, Jimmy . . ."

"What's the point?" he interrupted. "I can never be a cop again, so don't talk to me about 'my life.' My life is over."

"Who says you have to be a cop?"

"I do."

"Well, maybe, if you got independence training, the department could find a job for you."

"What, you think they'll take pity on me and make up some job for the blind guy?" He shook his head. "No, thanks."

"You may think you can keep doing this, but I can't. I'm your wife, not your babysitter."

He scowled, and his face reddened with anger. I hoped I hadn't gone too far, but at least I had his attention.

"I don't – " he began.

"You don't what?" I interrupted. "Need a babysitter? Look at yourself. You can't take care of yourself. You can find your way to the bathroom, but that's about it. I've lost count of the times you've smacked into the coffee table, just like you did again the other day."

"So that's what it's really about," he said sarcastically, "Your precious furniture."

"No, Jimmy, it's about you and whether you want the rest of your life to be like the past month."

"It's my life," he insisted.

"You've got to start independence training sooner or later. You know as well as I do that it's the only way things are ever going to get any better."

"Jesus, Christie, when are you going to stop nagging me about this?"

"When you start your training. Besides, it's already decided. I called the Lighthouse. We have an appointment tomorrow morning for your assessment and intake."

As I turned to walk out of the bedroom, he waved his hand in the dismissive gesture he used when he wanted to end a conversation. "All right, I give up, I'll go. Just don't make any other decisions for me, about what to do with my life."

* * *

"What the hell was that all about?" I demanded when we got home after our appointment at the Lighthouse.

He stopped next to the bar, his hand on one of the barstools, and turned toward me, affecting an innocent expression.

"Don't give me that 'who, me?' look," I snapped. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. I practically had to drag you out of here this morning. Then you acted like a petulant child the whole time we were there. I swear to God, the person who said the stubbornest animal on the planet is a blind mule never met Jimmy Dunbar."

I heard a smothered snicker and looked over at Jimmy. His lips were turned up in a little grin. I was so relieved to see a smile on his face, I couldn't help myself. An image of Jimmy with long mule's ears, his heels dug in, popped up in my mind. I started to giggle, in spite of myself. It was infectious, and Jimmy joined in.

After we stopped laughing, I said, "It's been a while since we've done that."

"Too long," he agreed.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you, Jimmy. I don't want to fight. It's just. . .when I think about what you're going through. . . I've been so worried about you . . . I . . . I felt you were drifting away, and I couldn't reach you."

"I know."

He reached out, found me, and drew me to him. For the first time in a long time, I'd seen a glimpse of the Jimmy I used to know. Seeing his smile and feeling his arms around me allowed me to hope he would eventually emerge from his depression. Suddenly, I felt tears trickling down my cheeks, and I buried my face in his chest. He held me, stroking my hair. When I regained my composure, I told him, "I just want you to be okay."

"I know," he began, then paused, biting his lip. "This isn't easy to accept," he said, gesturing at his eyes.

"You don't have to accept it. Just learn to live with it."

"Yeah, maybe you're right." He bowed his head.


End file.
